


Certain Rifles

by bubblesbythebeach



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Humour, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-23 05:19:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/618526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblesbythebeach/pseuds/bubblesbythebeach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He's the most dangerous man in the world, and NOT my problem right now."</p><p>Mycroft is a crack shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Certain Rifles

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little ficlet to practise posting things.

Three bullets. Three more. One hole.

Lestrade gripped the earmuffs and twisted his head out of them. He studied Mycroft for a moment, then said, “You never bloody told me you could handle a firearm, Mycroft.”

“Certain rifles are not unfamiliar to me.” The slow, thoughtful way Mycroft rolled the words “certain rifles” across his tongue was nauseating.

“That’s not a rifle, and we’re not exactly taking shots at ducks and deer here, My.”

One side of Mycroft’s mouth twisted upward deliciously. “That went out of fashion long ago. Most of the specimens in my family are purely decorative, these days. I speak of course about the firearms you’re so concerned about.”

“Not the deer, right.”

“Your turn.” Mycroft replaced the earmuffs around his ears.

Lestrade did the same, stood in place, steadied his outstretched arms and — pop, pop, pop, down the line and into the paper.

Centre, centre, last one lying awkwardly in the second ring.

Lestrade snatched a breath and rolled his shoulders. He fixed the glasses over his nose. Three more shots, but his concentration was gone and they were all just on the edge of the centre circle.

Lestrade pointed two fingers at Mycroft’s target, where a single puncture in the bullseye was the only evidence of his participation. “Right, Mycroft, let’s see you try that again.”

—

My brother would make the worst detective. He amasses knowledge, hoards his solutions — if I was murdered today he wouldn’t get out of his chair to avenge me. He’d make phone calls instead. By tea time he would know who the killer was, where and when and how I’d died, and he wouldn’t tell a soul unless they asked him politely. He’s a glutton for information so much that it’s crippled him. Mycroft chooses omniscience over solving the case. He thinks that it’s equal to power.

—

Mycroft reloaded his revolver, silver slipping through his fingers, beads of dull light flashing beneath his rounded fingernails. Lestrade watched his calm face; the slow fan of thick brown eyelashes as Mycroft raised his head was one of those ordinary but beautiful images he’d remember for a few days.

Mycroft’s left hand rose gracefully to hover above the revolver’s hammer.

One two three four five  _bang_.

Six bullseyes again.

“Okay. How. The hell do you do that.”

Mycroft cracked open his revolver again to peer into its empty chambers. He said, with a put-upon sigh, “Policemen draw their guns in the line of duty once in a blue moon. You need hardly  _worry_  about your performance, Greg.”

“What the hell are  _you_  doing, then?!” Lestrade flung one hand at Mycroft’s abused target in an incredulous gesture, an almost hysterical grin prising his mouth open. “When did the House of Lords introduce Mexican standoffs to settle a debate?”

—

Mycroft is the laziest cretin to grace the planet. He could unravel the most intricate of puzzles if he could only be arsed to get out and glance at the crime scene.

Of course he’s got enemies, John. He doesn’t go to them. They come to him. And he is ready for them. Defence over attack, John. Always.

—

Mycroft frowned at him, brow darkened by an exaggerated furrow. “Greg, I thought this was going to be a pleasant, if unorthodox, outing for the both of us. A break in routine, we said.”

“No, no. I hate you too much.”

“Oh,  _Greg_.”

“Nope. When Sherlock told me about the revolver in your desk drawer I thought you were being eccentric. At the most, trying to seduce me because Christ, man, don’t you get how sexy that fucking revolver is? Jesus, put that away, don’t you dare twirl it at me— Mycroft!”

“Yes, love?” he said.

“Don’t cock your damn eyebrow at me.”

Mycroft’s attention went back to the delicate revolver in his hands, and he set it down with another tired huff. But his face was set in a way that was halfway to a wink.

“Really, Greg, is there nothing around here I can cock without you getting upset with me?”


End file.
